


strawberry crush

by lovebot (bluelions)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Banter, Canon Compliant, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Japanese National Team, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelions/pseuds/lovebot
Summary: Adding Yaku Morisuke to the Japan National Volleyball Team roster creates a series of complications: Atsumu's high blood pressure, Atsumu's heart palpitations, and Atsumu's unbridled confusion. Everyone is head over heels for their newest libero, but to Atsumu, he's nothing but a doe-eyed bully.In which the entire national team is a simp for Yaku, and Atsumu doesn't understand why.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Yaku Morisuke
Comments: 23
Kudos: 128





	1. part one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the light-hearted simp for yaku fic turned into the atsumu falls in love so fucking hard but doesn't even know it fic!
> 
> this started out when twitter jumped on the idea that yaku would absolutely destroy atsumu now that they're on the same team, and i kinda just rolled with it. they're definitely a pairing i'd want to explore with in different settings and scenarios :)
> 
> the next couple chapters will come up as i finish them in the next two weeks!

Atsumu remembers Yaku from high school quite vaguely. He is a red and white smear in video footage and a number on a court he stood outside the lines from. Akagi has spoken highly of him several times, but along with other, more tangible liberos, like Nishinoya and Komori. Yaku Morisuke had escaped him.

As everyone in their scene began to propel towards adulthood - becoming professional volleyball players, seeking school, finding peace in golden farmland - the name began to flutter back within his periphery: “Yaku Morisuke Rises to the Top of Russian Volleyball”, “Japanese Libero Brings the Heat to the Russian Volleyball Super League”, “Tokyo is Proud to be Hometown of Yaku Morisuke”, “Nekoma High School Alumnus Goes International”. Bokuto and Hinata were sure to gush all about him during their time together on MSBY, but they like to gush about a lot of people.

It’s this insignificance bundled with his far-away existence that makes meeting Yaku Morisuke so much more _shocking_ , because clearly, Atsumu missed _the memo_.

Now, Atsumu can acknowledge and bear witness to his fearsome skill. After all, Yaku is a recent addition to the national roster leading right up to the Olympics; his balls have to be _kind of_ big, but not _enormous_ like everyone is making them out to be. 

They’re finishing up practice with 3v3’s, and Yaku is across the net with Bokuto and Kageyama. Atsumu is still familiarizing himself with the intensity of Yaku’s gaze, even if it’s not aimed at him. His hair is a fairy-esque shade of both fawn brown and silk silver beneath the gym’s lights. The red of his shorts look good on his skin. He’s so distracting.

Gao serves the ball for his team and snaps Atsumu back into focus. Yaku digs the ball with incredible stability, allowing Kageyama to set and Bokuto to wipe it clean off Hoshiumi’s block.

“That felt really good!” Bokuto exclaims and high-fives his teammates.

“Ah, sorry, that didn’t come off my hand like I wanted it to,” Gao apologizes.

Hoshiumi slaps him on the back encouragingly. “You’ve come so far with your serves! They’re getting better!”

The next rally is much longer. Bokuto practically spikes the ball for a serve, sending it careening towards the back corner. Gao dives for it and calls, “Atsumu!”

It’s not clean, but Atsumu has dealt with worse. Bokuto and Kageyama ready to block, tense and aiming to kill, so Atsumu lets the ball hang in the air for just a moment. It takes a split second for him to set for Hoshiumi, who slams it over their fingertips.

“Shit!” Atsumu hears him curse. He wasn’t there before, but Yaku slid into position to receive the ball nice and high. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth and Atsumu grits his teeth. He doesn’t have time to be provoked so thoughtlessly.

The back and forth finally ends when Kageyama dumps the ball onto their side, closing their match at 22-25.

Bokuto is wiping the sweat from his face with his shirt and yells through the fabric, “Man, that was fun! Let’s do it again!”

“You have to rest at some point, or practice is useless,” Yaku points out. He’s taken a seat on the floor, leaning back on his hands with his legs spread out.

“I agree,” Gao interjects with a laugh, “I’ve had enough of seeing the ball go up for the thousandth time because of Yaku.”

He grins real wide, the way that makes him look younger and just a bit cheeky. “I would never stop at the ninehundred and ninety-ninth!”

Everyone shares a laugh, but Atsumu is too busy fighting the twinging knot in his chest to spare a chuckle. He’s not _that_ funny.

Both Kageyama and Bokuto help Yaku up to his feet when their coach calls them in to wrap everything up. Atsumu snorts to himself and mutters, “He’s a grown man.”

“Man, I’m kinda glad we never had to play against Yaku back in high school,” Gao hums as they walk back behind them. “We definitely would’ve lost.”

“Are you kidding me? That would’ve been such a great opportunity,” Hoshiumi laments. “Right, Atsumu? You never played against him either.”

Atsumu shrugs. “I’ll admit that Nekoma woulda been tough.”

“Yeah, but if Nekoma is a defense powerhouse, wouldn’t that make Yaku the king of defense?”

“Oh, true!”

A low scoff escapes Atsumu. “Aren’t ya bein’ a bit overkill with the Yaku this and Yaku that?”

The two of them share a look that makes _him_ look like the crazy one.

“Well,” Gao says, “doesn’t he deserve it?”

Atsumu blinks. Those words irritate him. Nobody deserves applause for what’s expected of them. Yaku Morisuke is a libero; he will live and die for the ball. In a different chamber of his chest, though, those words fit right in.

-

There’s no practice the next day, but Atsumu wakes at dawn either way. First breakfast, morning jog, shower, second breakfast- Bokuto texts him as he finishes a glass of apple juice.

**bokuto:** tsum tsum!!

**atsumu:** good mornin

**bokuto:** come practice?

**atsumu:** i just showered

**bokuto:** shower again!!

 **bokuto:** yaku is coming too :)

**atsumu:** ???

Atsumu stares at Bokuto’s blinking dots with a deep scowl on his face.

**bokuto:** he’s really good!! i don’t think u guys know each other enough

**atsumu:** i already don’t like him

 **atsumu:** bad vibes

**bokuto:** D:

 **bokuto:** don’t say that!

 **bokuto:** come and u will see

Atsumu could never really say no to Bokuto, but maybe he did drag it out to get a free lunch out of him. He ends up packing a gym bag for their practice and realizes he’ll be forced to get personal with Yaku now. Even if it’s inevitable, Atsumu has managed to avoid getting into one-on-one situations with him.

He ties his shoelaces at the door. He remembers when Yaku was first introduced to the team last week. Most of the team already knew him, and they were ecstatic about it, but Atsumu couldn’t get past the proud stance of his hands on a slim waist, or his too-familiar exclamation of “I will be your greatest defense, so don’t worry about me!” Everything about Yaku Morisuke sent pinpricks pinching all over his skin. That’s definitely a sign for bad vibes if Atsumu ever saw one.

Their gym is a fifteen minute walk from his complex, giving Atsumu enough time to mentally prepare for Yaku. He’s spent so much energy trying to avoid him, he doesn’t even know what to expect or how he should approach the building pressure threatening to explode out of his mouth whenever he thinks of him. His palms are sweaty. Not good. Maybe it’s not enough time.

At the entrance, he catches Bokuto swiping his keycard and they walk in together.

“Are you feeling okay?” Bokuto asks. “You seem nervous.”

_Perceptive as ever_. Atsumu just waves his hand and hopes he can’t tell he’s already damp beneath the collar from overthinking. “Nervous? I don't get nervous.”

“Oh! You must be excited then!” Bokuto claps him on the shoulder. “Me too!”

He laughs half-heartedly. _Put me out of my misery._

Yaku is already waiting for them at the courts. He's on the floor sliding his knee pads on when he decides to make direct eye contact with Atsumu. He swallows and quickly looks away.

“Good morning, Yaku!” Bokuto greets, and the moment quickly passes.

“Good morn- Hey!” Yaku gets cut off by Bokuto enveloping him in an enormous bearhug, lifting him straight off the ground. His cries are muffled against the meat of Bokuto’s chest. “Put me down!”

Bokuto relents with a hearty laugh. He doesn’t get to dodge the elbow sent for his side and whimpers, “I thought we were friends!”

“Friends don’t dangle each other five feet in the air,” he scolds.

Atsumu feels awkward as they exchange back and forth with the ease of old friendship. Yaku’s brief rage melted easily into Bokuto’s general geniality, and his gaze is warm. He shifts his weight and suddenly draws their attention. “Oh!” Bokuto grabs Atsumu by the arm and thrusts him towards Yaku like a doll. “Miya Atsumu! I know you’ve technically met, but it’s good to be friends! Tsumu, this is Yaku Morisuke.”

Atsumu seizes up. He’s helpless to the onceover Yaku blatantly gives and the smile (smirk?) he offers. “Inarizaki, right? It’s unfortunate we couldn’t get to play against each other in the past, but this will do,” he says. “You’ve been impressive, or _so I’ve heard_.”

If Bokuto wasn’t such a solid weight around him, Atsumu’s body would’ve scrunched up with irritation. “Likewise,” he grits out. Then, with a burst of confidence, “I ‘magine Russia’s been a _nice vacation_ , eh?”

The line of Yaku’s lips turn feral in an instant. “Oh? I guess so. It’s nice I could get out of Japan, at least. _Have you ever had the chance?_ ”

Atsumu just barely contains his seething and shoves his head to the side. “No,” he spits, and he wriggles out of Bokuto’s grasp to change.

He hears Yaku’s laughter behind him.

Their practice begins once Bokuto warms up and gathers them from the opposite ends of the court. Atsumu spends most of it trying to focus on practicing rather than actually practicing. Every opportunity to be on the court and feel the ball is a chance to get better, to inch them closer to that gold medal. He can’t help but feel annoyed when Yaku forces them into practicing receives, but he takes a breath: they’re all here for the same goal, Yaku included. So he swallows his tongue and hones in on the balance of his body, the taut strength in his arms, Yaku’s demanding voice puppeting his muscles.

“Not bad,” Yaku praises Atsumu in the end. It’s total whiplash again. “Don’t be afraid of the ball.”

His brow furrows and he mutters, “‘m not.”

“Maybe not, but Bokuto and any other spiker definitely won’t hesitate to slam it to _you_.”

Atsumu meets Yaku’s unbothered expression with a snarl, but he’s got nothing but smoke.

They go through spiking and blocking training, and discuss various scenarios and plays until nearly two hours have passed. The jabs Yaku makes at Atsumu are ten times sharper than anything he has to come back with; it leaves him exhausted and defeated when they decide to call it quits.

“Have you talked to Kuroo recently?” Yaku asks Bokuto as they’re stretching.

“Yeah! He said he’s gotten his claws in some real feisty players from Tokyo.”

Yaku laughs, and it’s so unlike the abrasive mockery he had thrown him in the beginning. It’s a bit like rain on a warm summer day, like sweet strawberries and lemonade. “Of course he does,” he says.

Atsumu presses his forehead to his thigh and closes his eyes, listening to their voices turn watery. His head hurts from the game Yaku’s forced him to play and _lose_ . It hurts from nursing the wounds he’s given him and then straining to catch a sincere smile. _Ah, not true_.

Atsumu doesn’t know much about Yaku, but he knows for a fact that he finds little worth in insincerity. The corner of his mouth twitches. That, they share in common.

He looks up in time to catch Bokuto pulling Yaku up to his feet. “So, are you busy after this?”

“I’m meeting up with the Nekoma team actually.”

“Aw, tell them I said hello!”

Yaku grins. “Were you hoping to ask me out, Bokkun?”

Bokuto, who is never shy, has the audacity to cup the back of his neck and chuckle. “Maybe! But that's okay, we can practice again and I'll ask you again.”

Yaku shakes his head and lands a smack on his shoulder. “I don't think that's how it's supposed to work, but I look forward to it.”

“Want me to carry your stuff?” Bokuto offers hopefully.

“No,” Yaku punctuates with a soft snort, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He grins up at Bokuto and throws a small wave at Atsumu, who fumbles to return it. “Nice getting to know you, Miya.”

He turns and leaves for the exit.

“Darn.” Bokuto heaves a sigh, but he's unfazed by the double rejection. Almost as if he's used to it. He doesn't offer Atsumu a hand so he stands on his own to collect his things.

“Ya seem pretty close,” Atsumu points out carefully.

“Of course! I’ve known him since high school, and playing against him is the best!” Bokuto pauses for a beat. “And the worst!”

“Uh-huh,” Atsumu deadpans. He eyes Yaku’s retreating figure, small and dainty if not for the monstrous power he truly wields.

“Besides,” Bokuto drawls, nudging his arm with his elbow, “isn’t it kinda sexy when he’s scary?”

Atsumu blushes. “Wh-what?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? Am I wrong?”

No, Bokuto is not wrong in the same way Bokuto is not a normal ace, but that's not a conversation he wants to have in the same way he doesn't want to recall Yaku’s ferocity. His eyes pinned Atsumu in place, demanding his utter surrender beneath the heat of absolute attention. “Stay put, right where I want you,” Yaku desires, but the way he pushes his hair back from his forehead, the flex of his thighs, and the flash of pink from between his lips all call to him. Atsumu was torn.

“I get what ya mean,” is what he decides on saying. “Are ya like… _into_ him?”

Bokuto shrugs and then looks up at the ceiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah?”

He looks back at Atsumu and shrugs again. “Isn't everyone into Yaku?”

For the next couple weeks, Bokuto’s words will haunt him.

-

The national team’s staff soon announces a life-changing plan: temporary dorms until they move into Olympic Village next month.

“I know everyone has a strong sense of teamwork and friendship here,” their coach says, “but living with each other can be a tricky thing. The last thing we need is players who can’t play together because someone left dirty dishes in the sink. I’d like this to be an opportunity to not only grow closer and stronger together, but to work out those kinks before we get down to it.”

Atsumu scans his teammates briefly. He isn’t too worried. He’s lived just fine with the MSBY players before, and he trusts Aran the most to be a good roommate. He sticks his tongue out at him and gets an eye roll in response.

The managers are giving them the rundown on the details when his eyes land on Yaku. He hasn’t noticed him yet. Atsumu gnaws at the inside of his cheek. He wants to believe that Yaku is a horrible, messy, inconsiderate housemate, but all the signs point to otherwise. Atsumu knows he folds his clothes into neat little squares. He carries tissues and a handkerchief around. At the end of the night when it’s time to close up the gym, Yaku is one of the last people to leave.

Atsumu doesn’t realize everyone is leaving until Yaku is suddenly in his face. His brow is quirked and the round point of his nose is all too close. “You’ve been staring,” he says. “Is there something you need to say to me?”

He backpedals quickly, running into the folding chairs with a clatter. “Nope! Nothin’!”

“You’ve been weird, Miya,” Yaku accuses, crossing his arms. “We’re literally moving in together to boost team relations and you’re acting up, so spit it out.”

Atsumu stutters over broken syllables and half-formed excuses. God, he doesn't want this conversation; there's too many reasons for him to “be weird” around Yaku. “‘m not weird, yer makin’ things up,” he objects.

Yaku just sighs and turns to leave to join practice. “Fine. Be that way.”

“Fine. Be that way,” Atsumu mocks in a high-pitched voice once he's gone. Living together is going to suck.

He scrubs his hands over his face and muffles a scream into his palms.

-

The next three days are spent haphazardly packing his possessions and dying at practice. Atsumu prides himself on being a routine person, but lately he's been feeling drained, and it's all because of one singular Yaku Morisuke.

“You're not squatting low enough.”

“If that gets blocked, there's nobody to receive it.”

“Maybe if you stopped fucking around we'd be making progress.”

Atsumu can't _win_. The only victory is that Yaku hasn't decapitated him yet and everyone else seems to think that's perfectly okay. Hell, they're in love with everything Yaku’s got going on. It's always “nice receive, Yaku” and “you worked so hard, please take this bento I made you”, but never “are you okay, Atsumu?” or “hey, that was kind of mean, Yaku”.

It doesn't help that Yaku is largely indifferent to his suffering. Cat-eyed, sadistic, and alluring, Yaku has no concern for the crumbling of one Miya Atsumu.

He consults Aran about it over the phone the night before they're supposed to move in.

“Am I goin’ crazy or am I gettin’ bullied for no reason out here?” Atsumu leaves Aran on speaker on the coffee table while he paces around the living room.

“Well, I think Yaku is a very honest person in general,” Aran admits. “He does have a way of… putting you in your place.”

“ _Putting me in my-_ Puttin’ me in my place!”

“That's what I said, yes.” Aran sighs.

“For what reason?” Atsumu demands, whirling around to face closed curtains. “Wait a minute, d’you guys have a problem with me?”

“That's not what I said!” Aran curses under his breath. “Look, everyone thinks you're just fine. If anybody had a problem, I'm sure they would've said something by now. Yaku’s just very vocal about _everything_.”

Atsumu crosses his arms. “Okay, then why doesn't he bag on Bokuto? Or Komori? Or you?”

“Maybe because you’re _you_?”

Atsumu deflates. “That's fair,” he mutters and collapses onto the couch to stare at the ceiling. They sit in comfortable silence for a moment as Atsumu tries to gather his thoughts together. He and Yaku do share a palpable sense of _hunger_ , if nothing else. Yaku’s just got the sharper teeth, the prettier face.

“Not to pour salt to _whatever_ wound this is,” Aran says after a while, “but I think you're the only one who's got a problem with him. Everyone really likes him. I mean, I like him too.”

He rolls his eyes. “That's different, Aran, yer in a committed relationship with Kita-san; yer not _all over_ Yaku like everyone else is. They literally can’t see what a fuckin’ asshole he is.”

Aran makes a small, exasperated noise. “Maybe go look in the mirror and say all of that again. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hey, wait-” The call ends before Atsumu can protest. “Bastard,” he mumbles and curls up on his side.

Everything in his body feels like it's been wrung out and left in the sun to bake and shrivel. It’s a feeling he can’t grow into like a pair of sneakers broken in by somebody else’s feet. Even at rest Atsumu is still being dragged around in Yaku’s pit of snakes, his skin punctured with a billion venom-filled jabs. The cocoa-butter caress of his laughter is slippery between Atsumu’s fingers, always too thinly spread to soothe; it is far too expensive for his aching, purpling limbs.

_Isn’t everyone into Yaku?_

He snorts. “Yeah, everyone except me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on twitter [@softresetter](https://twitter.com/softresetter)


	2. part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw one-sided past atsukomo
> 
> also, this chapter was not meant to be h-word this is not an intentionally h-word fic i know how it seems aaaaa

Atsumu learns in the most violent of ways a thing about Yaku Morisuke he’d prefer not to know. For the record, Yaku isn’t physically touching him, but the few seconds of panic morphing into murderous intent in his eyes punch out a bruising crater in Atsumu’s lungs. He is, by all his accounts, being assaulted.

Atsumu reasons that Yaku isn’t supposed to be in his own room; he’s supposed to be out in the living room of their new two-bedroom, two-bathroom suite arguing over who’s cooking what for dinner tonight. Then again, Atsumu also shouldn’t be in Yaku’s and Ushijima’s shared room, but he can’t cook and unpacking his stuff was getting  _ boring _ . He wasn’t going to snoop for weird things, he was just  _ curious _ . He figured he’d steal an energy bar from Yaku’s bag or something.

When he gently pushed the door open, he wasn’t expecting to find Yaku himself curled up around a laptop in bed. Atsumu froze. “Oh, darling,” Yaku suddenly cooed, “you really miss me, huh? I know, I miss Mishka, too.”

A tinny little mewl responded, and Atsumu realized that Yaku’s talking to  _ a cat _ . Probably his own cat, but even so, Atsumu would never even have dreamed of Yaku speaking in such sugar sweet baby talk. It coats the innards of his ears and slips something shivery down his skin.  _ He’s cute. _

Atsumu proceeded to do something stupid, like choke on his spit or trip into the creaky doorframe, and Yaku snapped his neck in his direction, leading up to his current, quiet murder.

The severe furrow in Yaku’s brows are fraying the already fried ends of his fight or flight response into oblivion. If Atsumu dropped dead right here, right now, nobody would even suspect Yaku, and then he’d be left to haunt this apartment without ever going to the Olympics.  _ Kageyama’s a capable setter, he can bring home the gold for me, right? _

Atsumu sweats beneath his daggered stare; it’s dripping all over the doorknob, he just knows.  _ I wasn’t supposed to see this, I wasn’t supposed to see this, I wasn’t supposed to see this- _

Their silence is interrupted by someone’s voice through the speakers. Atsumu doesn’t understand a word, but Yaku replies in kind before sitting up and turning back to him, somewhat milder than a second ago. “Do you have a thing for spying on people?” he accuses.

“What? No,” Atsumu wheezes. His hands come up to gesture wildly. “I didn’t mean to, I swear, I thought you were in the other room.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why are you trying to sneak into my room?”

“’s not like that!”

“Then what’s it like?”

“I dunno, I was just bored of unpackin’!”

Yaku stares at him for another moment before the corner of his lips quirk into a small smirk. “Yeah, likely story,” he hums. Atsumu sags. He’s pretty sure he just got played, but  _ intentionally _ this time. Yaku adds, “You can’t tell anyone what you just saw, though.”

“What? ’s not weird, most people baby talk to their pets-”

“It was supposed to be private!”

“Okay! Okay!”

Atsumu will later remember this as their first promise.

He stands awkwardly at the door, unsure of what to do. This is their first time being alone outside the court and their first kind-of conversation since their practice with Bokuto. Atsumu’s eyes dart around the barren room.  _ Is he enjoying this? _

“Do you want to meet Mishka?” Yaku suddenly asks.

“Huh?” Atsumu croaks.

He rolls his eyes and scoots over. “You just said you were bored, don’t act like you’re gonna go out there and offer to cook now.”

“You don’t know that,” Atsumu grumbles.

Yaku’s eyes narrow. “You don't want to meet Mishka?”

“I’ll meet Mishka!” He slowly makes his way over and sits stiffly beside Yaku. The bed lingers with his warmth, and Atsumu is hesitant to get comfortable in it.

Up close, there is most definitely a cat on screen. He's large, royally fluffy, and a deep shade of cocoa and cream. Mishka is too busy beating the shit out of a toy mouse to notice Atsumu’s presence, but he's extraordinarily gorgeous. “He’s just like ya,” Atsumu blurts out.  _ Shit. _

Somehow, Yaku takes it as a compliment. “Right? I had to leave him behind with a teammate when I accepted the offer to play for Japan. I feel bad, he kept me company in Russia.”

Atsumu's eyes slide over to Yaku and manages to catch the longing in his profile. “Was it hard? Movin’ to Russia alluva sudden?”

The little bell on Mishka’s collar chimes in place of Yaku’s answer. Atsumu thinks he's asked a wrong question and almost bolts for the door, but then Yaku sighs. “Honestly,” Yaku starts, “it was. My closest friends were either still in high school or they stayed in Japan after graduation; they didn't really understand what it was like.”

A faucet turns on in the background of the call, then the gentle  _ click-click-clicking _ of the stove igniting. In their own home, the voices of their teammates are both familiar and strange. Atsumu pictures Yaku alone in a small Russian apartment holding nothing but a volleyball and a language nobody speaks. He pictures him, audacious and proud, hushed only by the downpour of snow and the weight of proving his worth to giants. Did returning to Japan feel like a reward, or is this relief for him?

What comes out of Atsumu’s mouth isn’t anything of the sort, but an unintelligible, “Ah.”

Yaku snorts and leans back on his palms. “Of course, you wouldn’t understand either, Miya.”

Atsumu’s face betrays him in all sorts of ways because  _ of course _ it comes back to prodding him, but also because he thinks he likes the idea of understanding. When he imagines Yaku curled up around Mishka with a phone full of unread messages, six hours too late for his friends to open, Atsumu thinks he could grasp it as easily as volleyball. What’s the difficulty in peeling back one’s skin to playing a few monsters to his tune?

He’s too much of an overachiever to reject toying with the idea, but he’s too much of a coward in Yaku’s company to tell him. “I coulda played wherever I wanted if I wanted to,” Atsumu says instead. His fingers curl in the sheets beneath him, not regretful, just stubborn.

Yaku rolls his eyes, oblivious to the ambition roiling in Atsumu’s head, and the opportunity slips away. “Oh, sure, says the guy who was whining about moving out of his own apartment,” he argues.

Atsumu stiffens. “When did ya hear that? Yer eavesdropping!”

“You’re just loud!”

“I’m not loud!”

A resounding mewl interrupts them and they both turn to the laptop. Mishka’s little nose takes up the entirety of the screen and Yaku swoons. “Aw, you think Miya’s noisy too, huh? Miya’s a little pissbaby, yeah?”

Atsumu’s face goes hot. “‘m not!” he protests lamely.

“Sounds like something a pissbaby would say,” Yaku sings and that  _ sick _ grin of his returns.

“At least I don’t have to spend all day yellin’ just for people to hear me because ‘m not two feet tall!”

Yaku reels back. “At least my hair isn’t piss yellow!”

“Leave my hair outta this!” Atsumu cries and scrambles up from the bed. “I’m tellin’ the team yer mushy for yer stupid cat!”

_ He’s still a jerk! _ Atsumu is almost at the door when Yaku lobs a pillow at the back of his head, immediately followed by Yaku himself. They crash into the floor with a heavy thump. Atsumu wheezes and Yaku’s hands slam on either side of his head. “Misha’s not stupid, how dare you,” Yaku spits. “And no you’re not!”

“Are ya serious?!” Atsumu’s head is reeling from the impact and the sudden awareness that Yaku is on top of him. To say that Yaku is feral on any given day is an understatement, but in this moment, he’s just solid weight, undone hair, and alighted eyes like crystalled honey. He doesn’t know where to focus, he’s sweating, and he’s irritated and  _ confused _ .

Yaku leans deep into their shared space and grinds out lowly, “ _ You’re _ making it too easy.”

Atsumu sputters weakly, “What?” He shouldn’t be able to feel his breath against his lips; he doesn’t  _ want _ to know what their space tastes like. “What do you  _ mean _ ?”

The door slams wide open, startling the both of them. Bokuto comes barging in (strange, he doesn’t live in their unit) with Hinata and Ushijima in tow. “What happened? Are you guys okay? You’re not fighting are you?”

“Atsumu’s always picking a fight with me,” Yaku says, mock disappointment suddenly laced in his voice.

All three of them give him a disappointed look and Atsumu protests. “Are you kiddin’ me? I didn’t even- Everytime I- He’s the one on top of me right now!”

“Tsumu, you’ve been grumpy lately,” Hinata says, “but you shouldn’t take it out on Yaku-san.”

“Agreed. We can’t allow this in such a critical period for the team,” Ushijima rumbles.

Bokuto even clicks his tongue and, in a great show of strength, plucks Yaku up and sets him on his feet. “Well, we can’t have that! We’re gonna go grocery shopping, and you can stay here and cool off, okay?”

“Yer just gonna  _ leave _ me here?  _ Alone _ ?” Atsumu squawks. “I didn’t even do anythin’!”

They all leave Atsumu flailing on the floor and file out. Yaku is the last one, and he pauses at the door to send him an unapologetic simper and a shrug, before shutting the door. Alone, all of his energy goes with the others, and he goes limp. Atsumu thumps his head on the floor a few times just to feel something other than utter bewilderment.

“Everyone’s fuckin’ with me,” Atsumu bemoans.

-

Yaku shoves a bag of chocolates into Atsumu’s face after practice. “From Russia,” he says simply.

Atsumu plucks a foiled piece out and holds it up into the light. “Yer not tryna poison me are ya?”

“You think I wouldn’t have done that earlier?” Yaku waits expectantly. They’re not really supposed to be eating sweets, but Atsumu indulges him anyway.  _ It’s one piece. _

“Huh, this’s pretty good,” he mumbles around the chocolate.

Yaku grimaces, but when he gathers his stuff up, he’s smiling. “Yeah, just don’t come snooping around for them,” he teases and shoves a few napkins into Atsumu’s hands.

-

Atsumu discovers that Yaku does not get bedhead. Intimacy is not so easily incurred, but he had spied him from across the living room as they both exited their rooms one morning, bleary and wobbling, and the sun so desperately wished to greet him with heavenly light that his hair glowed golden. It only took two seconds for Yaku to disappear into the bathroom, and one for Atsumu to burn that image into his memory.

He doesn’t think Yaku saw him.

-

Yaku still yells a lot. He stabs too many times into Atsumu’s side one day.

Yaku spends another hour with him on the court after everyone has left and receives every single one of Atsumu’s serves without fail.

-

Osamu delivers onigiri to the dorms while Atsumu is in the shower. When he finds Yaku sitting on the kitchen counter with a familiar, neat rice ball between his hands, he doesn’t know what to think. “You and your brother don’t really look alike,” Yaku says casually.

“Uh, yeah, because I’m the better-lookin’ one.” Atsumu picks one out from the tupperware beside Yaku’s leg and tries not to imagine slotting himself between his thighs. The counter is the perfect height for Yaku to rest his chin atop Atsumu’s head if he wanted to.

Yaku snorts. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what ya implied.”

“What would you know about implication?”

Atsumu ends up telling Yaku about the Miya twins and volleyball and a lifetime of happiness.

-

Learning to live together has its pros and cons. On the bright side, sticking to their strict diet has become monumentally easier when others can cook more than the same four dishes Atsumu knows. They wake up together, they go to practice together, and they relax together. When they’re on the court, he can feel their bond inexplicably. It’s like the invisible threads tying them to Atsumu’s fingers have smoothed out and tightened, becoming more responsive to every twitch in his muscles.  _ Atsumu _ feels stronger.

Most of the negative stuff are little things, like Bokuto inviting himself over randomly, or Hinata being too loud on the phone at night. Sometimes Ushijima sends him wary looks whenever Atsumu is near Yaku, as if to say, “I'm waiting for you to try something”. It's demeaning at best.

Things are going smoothly until the night Atsumu loses his socks.

“Shoyo, the dryer ate my socks,” he explains as he tosses his clothes about. “Lend me some for tomorrow, please?”

Hinata frowns from his place on his bed. He’s been fiddling with his phone for the past ten minutes, so he’s probably expecting a phone call tonight. “But I only have one clean pair left. I’m doing laundry after practice tomorrow.”

“Huh? Why didn’t ya bring more?”

“Hey, this isn’t my fault! Go bully the drying machine instead.” Atsumu groans and drops the empty laundry bag. He’s considering double checking the laundry room, but that means taking the elevator two flights down and circling the building to the back. Not very optimal. “Why don’t you ask Ushijima-san and Yaku-san?” Hinata adds.

Atsumu gives him a pained look. “Do I have to?”

He shrugs. “Or you can go downstairs and ask the other rooms. I heard Bokuto’s running board game night, though.”

Not very optimal either. Ushijima and Yaku’s it is. 

The living room is illuminated only by the city peeking curiously through the blinds, eyeing a sweaty-palmed man cross the threshold. Low, muffled conversation guides Atsumu to their door left ajar. He’s contemplating sock-eating monsters and one-size-fit-alls when he swings it wide open and finds Yaku lying on his belly, Ushijima’s broad hands fitting over the backs of his bare thighs. Yaku is naked in general save for his briefs and a shiny coat of oil over his skin. They both look up upon Atsumu’s entrance, and Ushijima even greets him with a wave. “S-socks,” Atsumu sputters weakly, a caveman-brained plead that goes unheard. He has no fucking idea where to look.

Yaku looks as if he’s being pinned beneath Ushijima’s tree trunk arms, it’s almost terrifying, but his body is lax and melting into the creases of the bedsheets. He’s conscious enough to raise an eyebrow at Atsumu and smirk a little. He lifts his foot up and wiggles his toes at him before Ushijima is gently pushing it back down. Atsumu feels a little lightheaded. “Would you like a massage as well, Miya?” Yaku singsongs.

_ No! Socks! _ Atsumu’s brain screams, but his mouth isn’t functioning, and he happens to catch the almost imperceptible frown Ushijima makes (is that  _ disappointment _ ?). Suddenly, he feels like he’s  _ intruding _ . “It’s good for the intense training your body is being put through,” Ushijima says slowly. Atsumu knows with a shudder that  _ Ushijima _ feels like he’s intruding.

“Uh, no, no, I’m good,” he says. “I’m great.”

“Are you sure?” Yaku rests his head atop his folded arms and his hair curtains over his eyes. He’s tantalizing from the anticipation resting in the crook of his head to the muscles pulled taut across his back. There’s feline grace to the way he fell apart by Ushijima’s touch and power as he lies there in the wake of his service. Ushijima’s fingers are still firm on his legs, and Atsumu can feel the visceral ghost of pale skin yielding to his own hands. He didn’t  _ want _ to know what that feels like.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he chokes out. His body suddenly lurches and he’s backpedaling out into the hallway. “I’ll, uh, see ya in the morning.”

“Wait, what did you want?” Yaku calls, but Atsumu is already half-way across the living room dashing empty-handed through citylight.

_ Isn’t everyone into Yaku? _

Is Ushijima into Yaku? Was Bokuto into Yaku? Hinata can’t possibly be into Yaku, right?

Atsumu careens into the back of the couch in his instinctual haste, and he flips right over and slips off the cushion. He lands hard on his back on the floor and hisses through his teeth.  _ This might as well happen too _ , he thinks, and lies there in the dark.

Statistically, everyone cannot be into Yaku. Then again, he’s not much of a numbers person. Maybe he should call Kita-san; he was always good at math. Unless Kita-san is part of the majority and is also in love with Yaku and responds to Atsumu’s plight with “Oh, I was just about to call ya to get Yaku’s autograph for me”. Atsumu would probably walk into the ocean at that point.

Atsumu rolls onto his side and shuts his eyes tight until his vision twinkles. God, he doesn’t need numbers, he needs a one page spreadsheet cataloging every emotion Yaku has dragged out of him in alphabetical order. He needs a teammate that doesn’t spit at every little thing he does then acknowledge his talent. He needs the constellations to spell out what the universal truths are because Yaku cannot be in the fine print. He needs socks and comfort and ten thousand shooting stars.

The next day, Atsumu wears his cleanest pair of dirty socks to practice and avoids Yaku like the plague.

There are Olympic matches balancing on the edge of his fingernails; he doesn’t have the time and energy to unpack the contents of last night. He limits himself to Yaku’s solid grip on his skull and the brand of Ushijima’s hard stare burned into the backs of his eyelids. He wishes their normalcy lasted just a bit longer. At least then, he could focus on the court without his world tilting off its axis to the shape of Yaku’s lilting voice.

Atsumu sets too high. Then too low. Again, and too fast.

Who is he kidding? Everyone on the team is running on all engines, and Atsumu is lagging in the stale air between everyone else and Yaku’s bare body. Yesterday’s events are leaking profusely from the folds of his brain, and every single day since they’ve met spills in chase, curdled and viscous. He understands solid receives and impeccable defense, honest communication and vigor and dedication. Those tangible pieces of Yaku are whole and also found when looking in the mirror. It’s the taunting and the back-handed praise and the vulnerability inside a sharp-toothed smile that jams it all up like a wad of garbage in the gutter. 

He snaps at Bokuto unnecessarily and gets benched for the rest of the day. To make matters worse, Yaku confronts him as he’s leaving the gym building. Atsumu has already changed out of his sweaty clothes, but Yaku stands before him in a practice jersey, kneepads and all. “You’re choking,” Yaku says.

Atsumu glowers and grips his gym bag’s strap tight. “I am,” he grits out because it’s true, and Yaku doesn’t appreciate liars. “It’s one day.”

“You do have a problem with me, don’t you? What happened last night?”

“I don’t  _ know _ .” And that’s true too.

Yaku stares hard as if he’s trying to believe it or not. In the end, Atsumu doesn’t know what his conclusion is. “Don’t think I’m trying to harass you because I only have the good of this team in mind; I want to win just as bad as everyone else. If you’re taking anything personally, now is the time to let me know, Miya.”

“I don’t have anythin’,” Atsumu hisses.

“Are you sure?” Yaku fires back. “Are you really fucking sure? Because I’m starting to think you think I’m out to get you.”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Well, geez, who’d’ve guessed  _ that _ ? You’ve got everybody wrapped around yer finger ‘xcept me.”

Yaku takes a step towards him. “Oh, yeah? Then what the fuck does that make me, Miya?”

Bully. Traitor. Aggressor. None of those words  _ fit _ anymore, they’re too jagged and Atsumu is frantically trying to shove them back in.

He lifts his chin a bit higher if only to increase the distance between their faces by a centimeter. “ _ I don’t know _ .”

Yaku’s face lights up in a snarl and he shouts, “What  _ do _ you know?”

Atsumu doesn’t flinch. He’s been point-blank at Osamu’s growling and barking too many times to be afraid of getting bitten, and his gut coils up in a tight knot instead. His bottom lip trembles, and his throat throbs with the phantom ache of screaming right back. Even if he wrenched his mouth open he wouldn’t know where to begin because he’s sure the untangling of his mind shouldn’t be witnessed by Yaku firsthand.

What does Atsumu know? What does  _ Yaku _ know?

He is still in a darkened living room, and he is still on a court that doesn’t need him, and he is still there trying to confront his own ungodly thoughts before Atsumu can even consider offering Yaku the end of an unraveling thread of brain rot.

They stand there in charged silence. The harsh hallway lighting turns Yaku’s hair silver again. His fists are clenched tight, and his lips are a hard line, waiting. Has he mistaken Atsumu’s lack of words for a lack of consideration? A lack of respect?

The moment must not have been as long as it felt because Komori slips in beside Atsumu to rest a warm hand on his shoulder. It’s grounding. “Hey guys, let’s not fight,” he says gently. “You two were doing so well!” Before Yaku’s expression darkens any further, he begins to tug Atsumu towards the exit. “Come on, let’s go, Atsumu.”

Bright sunlight nearly blinds them as they walk out of the compound. Komori keeps a soft but threatening pressure on his back to guide him. “Where the hell are we goin’?” Atsumu mutters.

“I dunno, but you seem like you need a talk. Any errands you need to run?”

-

They end up in a department store cafe with a five-pack of socks sitting between them. Atsumu is still vaguely frazzled and his skin tingles, but Komori’s bright voice and smile has eased most of it away.

Komori stirs his iced coffee with the straw, and Atsumu watches the ice clink around. “So, Atsumu. Care to share with me what’s going on?”

Atsumu makes a face. “What’s it to ya’?”

“What’s it to me?” He rolls his eyes. “Maybe that the stability of our national volleyball team could be at stake?”

“Tsk.”

“And maybe I’m a decent person and consider my teammates my friends,” Komori adds. “You and Yaku-san have always been in some kinda way, but this is the first time you’ve openly fought.”

Atsumu considers Komori Motoya from a lazy gaze. He had been bothered by him twice; first, a long time ago in high school, and second, an irregular series of EJP versus MSBY games. They were hardly friends during both of those periods, and yet, Komori found a way to remain in his peripheral at all times. His easygoing attitude, the generous smiles, his liquid movement across the court; Atsumu liked all of it, wanted to see more of it as much as he struggled with pulling his attention away from him. There was a soft mystery to Komori before they got to know each other, and his attraction dissipated.

Atsumu pauses. He doesn’t know why he decided to remember all of that right now. “What do you like about Yaku?” he blurts out.

Komori looks taken aback at first but his eyes dart to the corner in thought. “Well, I guess a lot of things,” he starts. “In high school, I admired him as a libero-”

“Weren’t ya better than him, though?”

He laughs. “According to Volleyball Monthly, sure. Regardless of ranking he’s always been a formidable player. I was really happy to see him play professionally, and now we’re on the same team!”

Atsumu hums to himself.  _ Well, even I know he’s a good player. _

Komori goes on to ramble about his qualities as a libero and his famous plays before reeling it back in with a lovestruck sigh. “I have to admit that meeting him was a completely humanizing experience, though. Yaku-san is always so intense on the court, it was a surprise to see how normal he is. He’s fun, and he seems to genuinely care about others especially when it comes to improving the team!”

“Uh-huh,” Atsumu mumbles disbelievingly. He slumps in his chair with his arms crossed.

“I guess you would have a hard time relating. You always butt heads with him instead. And then lose.”

“Yer gonna tell me I’m the problem too?” Atsumu scowls.

“Well, yes? That depends: what do  _ you _ think of Yaku-san?”

“He’s mean for no reason,” Atsumu answers immediately. “He’s short-tempered. Rude. Manipulative.”

Komori gnaws at his straw. “To an extent, sure.”

“And he’s distractin’.”

Komori raises an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

His face scrunches up. “I dunno. He just is. On the court. Off the court. He’s lewd for no reason. Sometimes he’s not.” He pauses. “I dunno. He pushes all my goddamn buttons all the goddamn time.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Komori leans forward with an unsettling intensity. “Atsumu, have you considered you might like Yaku-san?”

Atsumu stares at him. “I thought we were tryna have a serious conversation here.”

Komori’s delicate fingers fly to grip the edges of the table. “I am being extremely serious!”

There’s a cavern in the tangled mess of Atsumu’s brain that blooms doubt and disbelief. There is also a ridge in his ribcage where Yaku lives right outside his beating heart, never again in a white-walled apartment or an oil-heady room meant for one. Atsumu supposes Mishka is invited too.

_ He might be on to something. _

“I do  _ not _ like Yaku,” Atsumu hisses out instead.

Komori gasps. “Atsumu, do not tell me this is your first crush.”

“No, this is not my first crush!” Komori does not need to know his first crush is actually him.

“Well, you’re acting like it is!” He sighs. “Look, you may think you hate him and all, but I think you know he’s a better person than you choose to act like.”

Atsumu plants his hands down in the center of the table, rattling and disrupting the ice in Komori’s glass. “‘m not the one that’s up Yaku’s ass all the time like ev’rybody else is!”

Komori throws his hands up in a placating way. “All I’m saying is that everybody else is doing just fine when it comes to getting along with him. Maybe you’re just bothered that you can’t seem to get up in there too.”

Again with the “bothered”. Atsumu cannot believe he’s being told by the very person who’s plagued his life with bothering that “he’s just bothered”.

He takes a deep breath and retracts back into his seat, and reconsiders Komori Motoya beside Yaku Morisuke. Two high-caliber liberos. Where Komori is sunshine, Yaku is rain. Atsumu used to follow the sound of Komori’s gentle laughter, and now his ears strain for the genuine boom of Yaku’s unrestrained hysterics, or the unintentional sweet giggle. He used to wonder if Komori was looking his way across the net, but now he finds that Yaku is rarely staring back. Komori fits in well with the crowd. Yaku demands a crowd for Atsumu to stand outside of.

Atsumu has never been afraid of knowing what the rhythm of Komori’s petal-soft vulnerability would feel like knocking against his neighboring heart. Atsumu has never been afraid of Komori’s sunflower body melting into the sterile pool of friendship. Atsumu has never been afraid of chasing after Komori’s heat.

Atsumu is bothered by a lot of things it seems.

“It’s okay to have lovey-dovey romantic feelings!” Komori tells him on their way back to the apartment. Atsumu doesn’t know how to tell him his feelings are far from pink and fluttering. They’ve only just begun to unravel red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay honestly this chapter completely derailed from the original vibe and intentions i had planned, so if you feel the pacing and mood gets weird and funky just dig it because i guess i'm experimenting lmao
> 
> but also! thank you so much for the support with this fic! it really means a lot to see the comments and kudos and the hype on twitter :') next chapter in october!!
> 
> catch me on twitter [@softresetter](https://twitter.com/softresetter)


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